


That Which He Holds Dear

by Edge_of_Clairvoyance



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Affection, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Caning, Comfort, Corporal Punishment, Discipline, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Spanking, POV Dean Winchester, Pre-Series, Pre-Series Dean Winchester, Spanking, Teen Dean Winchester, Teenchesters, Young Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 22:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15783477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edge_of_Clairvoyance/pseuds/Edge_of_Clairvoyance
Summary: "You haven't been doing well today, Sam, and not for lack of ability. We're not here to waste neither time nor ammunition, so I'm going to give you motivation for this next heat. For every shot you miss, your brother will receive one stroke with the swagger stick."





	That Which He Holds Dear

**Author's Note:**

> Non-consensual spanking of a minor - don't like, don't read. Some f-words to boot.
> 
> Thanks so much to [CrazedPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazedPanda), [alexofthegarden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexofthegarden/pseuds/alexofthegarden) and [ToscaRossetti](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToscaRossetti/pseuds/ToscaRossetti) for the help, advice, corrections, support and the "Firefly" recommendation :)

_"Begin by seizing something which your opponent holds dear; then he will be amenable to your will" ― Sun Tzu, "The Art of War"_

 

"We should put holy water in his coffee."

"Sam."

"I mean it. He's evil."

"He's human."

"An _evil_ human. He's even named 'Maloney'. I bet it comes from 'malus' in Latin. It probably means a bad person."

"I'm pretty sure it's Irish."

" _Dean_."

Dean put down the duffle he was carrying, wiped his palms on his jeans and squinted at his brother in the afternoon light. "What, Sam?"

Sam also put down his load of cardboard targets and stared up at Dean. "Why are you defending him?"

"Chill, will ya? I was just sayin' he's human and has an Irish name, I'm not defending-"

"You _are_."

"Fine," Dean bent to unzip the duffle. When Sam was getting like that, it was best to duck your head and let the storm blow itself out. And Sam could raise quite a storm, even at just twelve years of age. Dean dreaded to think what kind of a whirlwind Sam would be able to raise by the time he was eighteen.

Dean started to take the weapons out of the duffle and lay them on the table that was set to one side of the shooting range. "You're just gonna stand there?" He said casually.

Sam didn't answer at first, and Dean took two more guns out of the duffle, put them on the table, reached for a sawed-off and placed it by the handguns. By the time he was about to turn to the duffle again, Sam was by his side, pulling a revolver from the bag and handing it to Dean.

"You know, you should have just put the duffle on the table, then you wouldn't have to bend down to get the weapons," Sam muttered. Dean smiled.

"Yeah, well, my brainiac bro was a little busy tracing surname origin, otherwise I'm sure he would've made certain I wasn't working my ass off in vain."

Sam was already wearing a bitchface, but he somehow managed to bitch it up some more. "Jerk." Dean grinned wider and tousled Sam's hair.

It was their seventh day at Major Maloney's farm. He was an old acquaintance of Dad's, but not from the service; Dad had met him only after becoming a hunter. Maloney was hardly hunting by then, not with how bad his leg had gotten over the years, but his Texan farm had the best training facilities for young hunters. Dad had told them about it more than once, eyes sparkling the way they did when the memory was a good one.

There was never a doubt Dean and Sam would get to appreciate those facilities up close and personal; it was only a question of when and how much Sam would hate it. The answers to those questions were: Easter vacation and a lot, respectively.

Dean thought Sam wasn't giving this a fair chance. Sure, Dean could think of better ways to be spending his vacation – sneaking his hand up Emily Remirez's outrageously short skirt was one – but he wasn't bitchfacing all the way down to Maloney's farm. After all, if Dad thought so highly of the man and his place, Dean was willing to give it a shot.

Major Maloney was waiting for them on his front porch as they climbed out of the car. He had a rattan swagger stick tucked under his arm, and his posture was a perfect drill sergeant's stance, with his face equally schooled.

Dad approached the porch, snapped to attention and saluted; Dean was so surprised he actually snapped to attention along with Dad without even thinking about it. Sam was on Dad's other side, so Dean couldn't be sure what he was doing, even though he suspected the squirt was at the very least straightening his back.

"At ease, corporal," Maloney said, and, Jesus Christ Almighty, Dad was indeed at ease within two seconds. Dean could barely keep his jaw from dropping.

Maloney walked down the porch steps – he was favoring his left leg so slightly it was practically unnoticeable – and came to stand in front of Dad.

"Are you still fighting the fight, corporal?"

"Yes, sir. Every single day, sir."

"Good man," Maloney's grey eyes shifted to Dean, and then to Sam. "These are your boys?"

"Yes, sir."

Maloney pulled a metal flask from his pocket. "Silver and holy water," he held it out to Dad. The three of them took turns sipping, and then Dad handed it back to Maloney, who nodded and stepped a little sideways to face Dean. "You're Dean."

"Yes, sir," this was ridiculous, he had nothing to be nervous about. His knees had no right, _no fucking right_ , to feel weak like that.

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen, sir."

"You're training to be a hunter?"

 _I_ am _a hunter_. But he didn't say it. Why the hell didn't he? "Yes, sir."

Maloney nodded and walked over to Sam. "And you're Sam?"

"Yes, sir," the tone was respectful enough; actually, Dean hadn't heard Sam being this respectful in a while.

"You're twelve, I gather."

"Yes, sir."

Dean was waiting anxiously for Sam's reaction to the "you're training to be a hunter" question that should have come next, except it didn't. Maloney was looking at Dad again. "Take your bags inside, let's palaver."

Dad came up to the bedroom Dean and Sam would be sharing after he had finished discussing everything with the old major. He explained to them they were to stay there for ten days and follow Maloney's training program.

"He'll give you a taste of everything. Shooting, sparring, spells, resistance training, lore, tracking, field med, weapon handling, survival methods. He even has an obstacle course."

This didn't sound too bad to Dean. It was not much different than what Dad was doing with them. He glanced over at Sam; his brother was sitting there with his lips tight and his eyes squinting slightly. It was Sam's "I've got a lot to say about this and I'm trying really hard not to, but I might say it anyway" expression.

"Major Maloney knows what I'm worth as a hunter. As far as child raising goes, he'll make up his mind about me depending on how well you comport yourselves. I expect you boys to be on your best behavior. No disobeying, slacking or backtalking. I might not have cell reception all the time while I'm away, but I'll be getting a full report once I'm back. I see any misconduct on that report, and you won't like what happens. You got me?"

"Yes, sir," Dean said hurriedly and heard Sam echoing the words a split second later.

"The major's got full authority to deliver punishments as he sees fit. And I'll have you know, I'll be doubling each and every punishment he dishes out. If he makes you run three miles, I'll make you run six. He has you copy five pages of Latin, you'll be copying ten. He tells you to dig a four-foot trench, I'll tell you to dig an eight-foot one. He stands you in the corner for fifteen minutes, you'll be standing there for thirty. He beats your asses, and you'll be getting double from me. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dean glanced over at Sam again; the kid's jaw was actually twitching.

"I know you'll do well," Dad's voice softened. "You're good boys. Smart. You'll make me proud, won't you?"

"Yes, sir," of course they would, as far as Dean was concerned. No ancient, past-his-prime has-been was going to say that John Winchester didn't raise his sons right.

Dad's eyes shifted to Sam. Sam was silent for a moment, and Dean was about to jab an elbow into his ribs. But just before he did, Sam's "yes, sir" came, quiet but clear.

Dad smiled and gave Sam's cheek a pat. "Alright. Let's go downstairs."

Major Maloney had lunch set for them. Dean had expected combat rations, or at the very least basic, tasteless old bachelor's meal. Instead there were lamb roast cooked to perfection, peas and creamy mashed potatoes, served with a side of fresh green salad and warm sourdough bread, recently baked. Dean devoured two large servings and regretfully passed on asking for a third so he could have some room for the cherry pie.

After lunch the major showed them around the farm. He had a vegetable garden and some chickens in a fenced-in yard. He had work sheds, a barn that was turned into a gym with weights and other training equipment, a shooting range and the obstacle course Dad was drooling over and had said it was as good as the one he trained on at boot camp. A few guard dogs chained by their individual kennels stood watch at various points along the edges of the premises. Dean had the impression those beasts might have been related to hellhounds.

They went back to the house and Maloney showed them his library. Dean glanced at Sam to see the kid's eyes light up at the shelves upon shelves of books, and smiled to himself. Sam wouldn't be _completely_ miserable here after all.

They returned to the living room to listen to the schedule Maloney had planned for them. They were to get up at six a.m. every morning, feed the chickens, and proceed from there to their morning run. After a shower and some breakfast there would be training of all sorts until lunch, after which they could rest for an hour, and then do house and farm chores and study at the library. There would be additional training later in the afternoon until dinnertime.

It sounded okay to Dean. Well, not the chores and studying bits, but all things considered, it was a reasonable schedule. He looked to see Sam's reaction, but his brother kept his face expressionless and just nodded to signal his understanding.

They walked Dad back to the car. He hugged Sam first, and Dean felt a slight clench in his chest at the way Sam's hands grabbed at Dad's coat, as if he was trying to keep him in place. Dad murmured something in Sam's ear and stroked his head, then pulled back and leaned a little to look into his face.

"It's gonna be fine, Sammy, you'll see," he said. Sam nodded, although the corners of his mouth were pulled down and his jaw was twitching again.

Dad turned to engulf Dean in his strong arms and the scent of whiskey and leather. "Be good, Dean."

"Yes, sir."

"I want you to watch out for Sammy, okay?"

"Yeah, Dad, you know I will."

One of Dad's hands slid up to cradle the back of his neck. "That's not what I mean. He doesn't want to be here. He's anxious, bitter. He might get himself hurt not paying attention to instructions, or he might run his mouth too much. Keep him in line. Keep him safe. You hear?"

"Yes, sir."

Dad gave his back a pat and disengaged. Dean stepped closer to Sam so he could sling an arm around his brother's shoulders and watched the Impala drive away. When the rumble of the engine was long gone, Dean looked down at Sam.

"You okay?"

Sam took a breath. "Yeah." Dean squeezed his shoulder and then led him back to the house.

They spent the rest of the afternoon with Major Maloney evaluating their abilities so he could adjust the training to suit their level. By the time the sun was nearing the horizon, Dean was drenched in sweat, and Sam looked like he might keel over. But he perked up as Maloney took them inside and into the library, where the major opted to put their minds into tests as excruciating as their bodies. Both Sam and Dean breathed a sigh of relief when the major announced it was time for dinner, which consisted of spaghetti in sauce laden with shredded leftover roast from lunch, grilled butternut squash, cornbread and more cherry pie for dessert. Dean thought he was _definitely_ going to like it here.

Sam and Dean settled quickly into a routine. They had very few idle moments from the time they woke up until the time they turned in, but Dean had to hand it to the major – he drove them hard, but never to the point of exhaustion. He made sure they understood the commands, that they were minding safety protocols, that they were drinking enough water, resting on their midday break, eating well and going to bed on time.

Sam kept his mouth mostly shut. He hardly even complained to Dean when they were alone, but Dean was careful to monitor his brother's facial expressions and body language, which spoke volumes. Dad was right; Sam would rather be anywhere but here. There was very little Dean could do about it, but he did cut the kid some slack and didn't mention the bitchfaces Sam was giving Maloney's back, or rush him when he wasn't jumping in to obey commands or putting in enough effort into some drill.

And it wasn't like it was _all_ bad for Sam, either. They had plenty of time in the library, and in the evenings they sat for a while with the major in the TV-less living room, listening to his stories of war and hunting and travel. Sam could scoff all he wanted, but Dean saw how his face took on that look he had when he was fascinated.

They had half a day off on Saturday, and on Sunday, Major Maloney took them horseback riding at a friend's farm, then dropped them off at the nearby town with pocket money for lunch, a movie and some snacks. It was a good day, with the best part being the way Sam laughed, bright and carefree. He was even smiling that dimpled smile of his at Maloney when the major came to pick them up. In the dimness of the truck, Dean though he saw Maloney smiling too, just a little.

Except Sam wasn't smiling on Monday morning. Maybe it was knowing he was about to face another full day of training after their weekend, maybe it was something else. Dean couldn't tell, because the kid wasn't talking to him. Dean knew his little brother well enough to know when not to push it. And Sam _did_ follow the major's orders throughout the entire morning with minimum bitchfacing, so Dean figured his Monday morning blues would wear off eventually.

They finished lining the weapons on the table and started to arrange the boxes of ammunition and spare magazines. Maloney had told them beforehand they would be shooting from a thirty-feet range, so Dean dragged the counter to the proper distance away from the row of standing targets, on which Sam was hanging the cardboard ones.

Maloney came strolling over to them with his swagger stick under his arm as usual, and Dean automatically straightened his back as the major drew near. Both boys stood silently while Maloney inspected the way the shooting range was set up, and then nodded and motioned for them to wear the safety goggles and ear protection.

Dean could see from the get-go that Sam's heart wasn't anywhere near what they were doing; his posture was sloppy, the bullets going wild more often than not. Dean frowned. Thirty feet was something Sam shouldn't have a problem handling, but he wasn't even trying.

The major said nothing while they finished with the shotgun, put up fresh targets and switched to revolvers. Sam dropped the bullets while reloading, and fumbled with them way longer than he needed to. Dean stole a glance at Maloney; he was holding his stopwatch, watching it and Sam alternatively, but still said nothing.

Sam finished the heat with only three bullets out of twenty inside the circle on the target. He looked briefly at the cardboard, and Dean could see no indication Sam had even the slightest care for his shameful results.

"Alright," Maloney said. "I'd like you to put up a new target for the nine-mil, Sam."

"Yes, sir," Sam grabbed two cardboards, but Maloney spoke again.

"Just one will do."

Sam glanced at him, eyebrows rising just the tiniest bit, but went ahead and hung the target. Maloney looked over at Dean. "Bring that saw-horse over here, please."

There were a couple of saw-horses near the range, and Dean carried one of them back. Maloney indicated with his swagger stick, and Dean placed it slightly before the counter and parallel to it.

He was about to go around it and back to his place by Sam's side, but Maloney said, "stay there." Dean remained standing by the saw-horse with an uneasy feeling starting to trouble the pit of his stomach.

"Sam, load ten bullets into the Beretta, if you please."

Sam loaded the magazine and slid it into the gun, then looked at Maloney. The major strode over to stand next to Dean.

"You haven't been doing well today, Sam," he said. "And not for lack of ability. We're not here to waste neither time nor ammunition, so I'm going to give you motivation for this next heat." With that, Maloney held Dean's upper arm and bent him forward and over the saw-horse. Dean grabbed the beam on either side of his body to keep steady and twisted his head to stare at the major.

Sam was also staring, his mouth about to open, but the major spoke before Sam had a chance to.

"You're going to go again, no time limit, just hit the inside of the circle. For every shot you miss, your brother will receive one stroke with the swagger stick."

Dean felt the temperature of his insides drop instantly; that stick was rattan, and nasty-looking, and damn it, Maloney couldn't _do_ that!

"You can't do that," Sam's voice was quivering slightly.

"Why not?"

"It's not fair. Dean didn't do anything."

"No, it's not fair," Maloney's hand was resting on Dean's shoulder. Dean could have brushed it off easily enough if he straightened up, but he didn't. "You know what else isn't fair? When monsters kill unsuspecting civilians. When monsters hurt your hunting partner. And the most unfair thing of all? When monsters get either civilians or another hunter because you didn't care enough to hit the target."

Sam's hazel eyes were wide open, his mouth slightly gaping. Maloney didn't wait for him to get his voice back.

"You don't care about the training, but you care about your brother. But just caring isn't enough; you need to be able to have his back, and that's what's training is for."

"Okay, I get it," Sam took a little step forward, and Dean felt Maloney's hand pressing down, ever so slightly, as if he thought Sam's movement would evoke one from Dean. "I get it. I'll finish this session, I'll do it properly. You don't need to beat Dean."

The major shook his head. "Not enough of a motivation, I'm afraid."

"What the hell do you mean, not enough motivation? You're holding a freakin' _cane_ over my brother-"

"Exactly. And if I let Dean go, I'd lose that leverage, wouldn't I?"

"You can beat me, then. For every shot I miss. I'll take it, I-"

Dean's stomach gave a lurch at that, but Maloney just shook his head again. "You don't mind getting hurt as much as you mind your brother getting hurt. And on a hunt, your mistake or lack of training could very well get him hurt. Or killed. And then you'd feel a hundred times worse than you would just watching him take a beating. You need to feel that pain. His pain. Now get back to your post."

Dean could see Sam clenching his fists, but a moment later he turned, faced the counter and the target, and picked up the gun. He checked the safety, racked the slide and pointed the barrel at the target.

"Ten. Fire at will."

Sam drew a breath, focused his eyes on the target and squeezed the trigger. Dean craned his neck a little to look at the target; there was a little black dot near the edge of the circle, on the inside. Dean released air he didn't realize he was holding.

Sam fired again, with more certainty to his stance, and put three more bullets inside the circle. Dean could see Sam's shoulders relaxing a little. He lowered the gun, peered at the target, then brought it up again, and fired the rest of his shots in rapid succession.

Dean watched the way Sam tensed as he stared at the cardboard, and turned his gaze to look at it.

There were three hits outside the circle.

Dean threw a glance back as the weight of the major's hand disappeared off his shoulder. Maloney stepped a little away, and took the swagger stick from under his arm.

"How many hits, Sam?" He asked

"S-seven, sir," Sam was trying very hard to control his voice. "Missed three, sir, but please-"

 The was a swishing sound, then a thud, and a split second later a line of fire across his ass made Dean gasp. He held tighter onto the beam he was bent over and clenched his jaws when he heard the stick swishing through the air again; it hit slightly lower, and Dean stayed mostly silent, with just a little moan at the back of his throat that he hoped Sam couldn't hear. He tried to stifle even that as the stick sliced over his ass for the third time, but it fucking _hurt_.

Dean took a breath to compose himself, raised his head and managed a smile. "It's okay, Sammy. It's all good."

Sam was breathing faster. He passed his eyes from Dean to the major.

"Ten more, please, Sam."

Sam didn't move. His eyes were on Dean again, and Dean strained to keep the smile. "Load it, Sammy. It's fine. You're doing great."

Sam's hands were trembling as he attempted to load the magazine. The bullet slid over the lip without catching, producing a metallic clank. Sam paused, aligned the bullet and tried again. It took him almost twice as long to load than it usually would, but Maloney didn't rush him, just stood behind Dean like a monument over the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier.

Sam finished loading the magazine, slapped it into the gun and leveled the barrel at the target. His chest was rising and falling, his unsteady hands making the muzzle swim in the air. Dean was about to call at him to take another moment to focus, when Sam released a quick volley of three shots, then two more, three again, and the last two.

Dean didn't need to look at the target to know what the result would be; with a pace this quick, the recoil would have made the barrel climb up. It shouldn't have mattered much if Sam's hands were stronger, or if he wasn't as nervous, but as things stood, it did.

"How many hits?" Maloney's voice was even.

Sam lowered the gun until the muzzle touched the counter. He was almost panting, his gaze fixed on the ground between him and the target as if he was terrified to even peek at it.

The major gave him another minute before prompting, "how many, Sam?"

"Please," Sam whispered, his eyes still on the ground. Dean shifted a little over the saw-horse and glanced over his shoulder. Major Maloney's face was blank. Dean looked at the target, counted the hits and his stomach clenched.

"State the score, Sam."

Sam breathed in and raised his eyes. "Six in, four out, sir."

Dean heard the rustle behind him and then the swishing sound and shut his eyes. The first stroke drove his hips to grind against the beam and he tucked his chin into his chest to help keep his mouth closed. He winced with the second stroke, fingers tightening on the beam, and tried to draw a breath before the next one landed. The little air he managed to breathe in was knocked out when the stick hit his ass for the third time, and Dean ducked his head further and his shoulders hunched.

The fourth stroke whipped low, almost at the place where his ass curved down to meet his thighs, and as much as Dean tried to stifle his groan, he knew Sam heard it.

Dean stayed hunched over, trying to regulate his breathing before he gathered the courage to look up into Sam's eyes.

His little brother was pale-faced, his nostrils widening and shrinking over parted lips as he panted.  His eyes were glistening and he was blinking fast.

"Ten more, please, Sam," even now, the major's voice was calm, composed.

Sam shook his head. "No. Enough. Let him go."

"Load the magazine."

"No," Sam's voice was trembling, wavering between defiance and pleading. "You've made your point, I learned my lesson. I'll stay here at the range, I'll practice till dinnertime. All day tomorrow. As long as you want. Just let Dean go, please."

There was a pause as Sam stood there, chest rising and falling, eyes staring straight at the major. Dean hardly dared to breathe.

"Ten more bullets. Load them, please," Sam flinched as if slapped. He blinked, turned back to the counter and released the magazine from the gun. He snuffled, wiped his forearm over his face, and then picked up the magazine and started loading it.

Dean peeked at Major Maloney. The man might have been made of stone for all he knew, because there wasn't the slightest line of emotion on his face. Dean bettered his grip on the beam, and looked back at Sam.

His brother had finished loading the Beretta and stood, his eyes drilling into the target. He remained motionless for a minute, weapon held firmly with both hands. Then he raised the weapon, leveled it at the target and squeezed the trigger.

He maintained a steady pace, letting the muzzle sink back down after the recoil, keeping his elbows locked, his breathing even. His lips were pressed into a thin, determined line.

Maloney waited until Sam had slowly lowered the gun and placed it on the counter before asking, "how many hits?"

"Seven, sir. Three out, but one of them is grazing the line."

"Touching the line counts as a hit, you remember."

"Yes, sir. Eight in, two out, sir."

Sam didn't turn his head to look at Dean as the swagger stick whistled through the air. The stroke crisscrossed a previous one, and Dean cringed, letting go with one hand to cram his sleeve into his mouth. He pressed it tighter for the last one, and even so, the burn was bad enough that he was sure his cry of pain was filtering through the gag despite the best of his efforts.

For what seemed like a long time, everything was silent. And then the major said, "clean it up, research session in the library in fifteen."

Dean spied over his shoulder to see the major tucking the swagger stick neatly back under his arm and turning to leave the firing range. He dropped his head and stayed like this over the saw-horse for a minute longer, then drew a breath and pushed himself up.

His ass protested as the rough denim rubbed over the fresh welts, and Dean ground his teeth and straightened all the way up, then looked over at Sam. The kid was still standing by the counter, staring blankly ahead. A single tear trailing down his face caught the light of the lowering sun.

The fastest Dean could move was still not as fast as the pain in his chest demanded of him. It didn't ease off when he had Sam in his arms, but it was better, just a little bit.

Sam slid his arms around Dean's waist and pressed his cheek to his chest, under the collarbone. He gave out a soft sob that sounded like "Dean", and the pain hit anew at Dean's ribcage.

"It's okay, Sammy, it's okay, everything's okay," he stroked the kid's head slowly, feeling Sam hugging him tighter.

"I'm s-sorry, I'm s-so sorry," Sam's words came between hitched breaths and Dean went on passing his fingers gently through the golden-brown hair.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, kiddo. Everything's fine," Sam didn't reply, but it was okay; Dean didn't need him to ratify what he already knew.

It was all Dean's fault.

Because he had promised. He had promised Dad he'd watch out for Sam, and he hadn't. Sam wasn't toeing the line like he should have, and Dean said nothing. Sam wasn't paying attention, had been throwing those bitchfaces of his around like nobody's business, and Dean had done nothing. This ass beating was long time due.

But he didn't share those thoughts with Sam. Sam wouldn't understand. He didn't have the same responsibility, and it was okay, it really was, because Dean was happy with it, even if it meant having his ass handed to him so royally.

When Dean felt Sam had calmed down, he glanced at his watch and nudged his brother to pick up the wasted cartridges while Dean packed the guns and leftover ammunition. They didn't talk on the way back to the house, and not while they settled in the library – on a heavily padded armchair, in Dean's case – and started working on the research assignment the major had laid out for them.

Dinner was equally quiet, after which Sam asked meekly to turn in early, and Dean followed him upstairs. He wasn't surprised in the least when Sam came to Dean's bed instead of his, only scooted aside and allowed his little brother to curl next to him in the narrow space and fall asleep with his hands fisted into Dean's shirt.

The remaining days until Dad's return passed uneventfully. Dean and Sam worked with Major Maloney's training program with not so much a squeak of protest, and the major didn't mention Monday's ordeal with so much as a single word.

But Dean couldn't totally relax. Because on Thursday Dad would be coming back to receive their conduct report.

_I'll be doubling each and every punishment he dishes out. He beats your asses, and you'll be getting double from me._

Dean got nine strokes with the swagger stick. Double that was eighteen. Jesus _Christ_.

He tried to put it out of his mind for the time being, but he couldn't. The major was carrying the fucking stick under his arm practically all the time, and Dean's stomach churned whenever he caught sight of it.

Dad arrived on Thursday the same time Sam and Dean were coming downstairs after their midday rest. He held his arms wide open for them, and Dean allowed himself to enjoy that hug. He could afford this much for now, before the major filled Dad in on what happened, and Dean would have to face the music.

"Do they have anything scheduled for today?" Dad asked the major.

"The barn needs cleaning," Maloney replied. "After that they're free as far as I'm concerned."

Dean couldn't decide whether the fact that cleaning didn't require too much concentration was for better or for worse. On the one hand, he wouldn't have been able to concentrate anyway knowing that right now back at the house Maloney was relaying to Dad everything that had happened during the last ten days. On the other hand, he desperately needed to take his mind off that exact thing.

He settled for putting extra vigor into mopping the concrete floor, and tried not to notice the perplexed glances Sam kept throwing his way.

The cleaning actually took a while to finish, and they only had an hour to sit with Dad in the living room before dinner. Dad wanted to know everything about the training they underwent, but he didn't address their behavior with so much as a word. Dean didn't know what to make of it, or of the way Dad seemed so satisfied and his smiles seemed so warm.

Dean had liked Major Maloney's cooking ever since that first lunch, but he could hardly eat the fried chicken and green beans they had for dinner that evening. His entire digestive system, from his esophagus to his intestines, felt clenched and tight. He did his best to empty his plate even though the food tasted like nothing at all, even the apple pie, whose sweet cinnamony smell would have made his mouth water any other day.

Dad sent them upstairs to pack and turn in early. Dean lay in his bed, stared up into the darkness, and listened to Sam's breathing. When it was deep and stable Dean got up quietly, gathered a change of clothes, and tiptoed to the door.

"Dean?" The sleepy whisper stopped him cold.

"Just gonna take a leak. Go back to sleep, Sammy," he waited for a few seconds by the door, but Sam was silent once again, and so Dean slithered out of the room and closed the door carefully behind him.

He put his flannel on and changed his pants in the bathroom – if there was even the tiniest chance Dad would administer the whipping over his clothes, he would rather have jeans on and not sweatpants – and went down the stairs.

He halted at the bottom of the staircase to listen. He heard the faint sound of the radio coming from the living room; it was time for Maloney's favorite show, and he would be sitting there with his whiskey-laced coffee for at least an hour. Dad had said he needed to work on something before he turned in, so Dean slipped on his shoes and went into the library.

Dad was at the table, a map covered with red markings spread before him. He raised his head as Dean walked in.

"I thought you'd be asleep by now. Everything okay, kiddo?"

"Yeah, I…" this was it. There was no way around it. Dean straightened his back and held his head up. "Major Maloney beat my ass, sir."

He was staring straight forward, partly because of the stance, partly because he didn't want to see Dad's disappointment.

There was a short moment of silence before Dad asked, "When was that?"

"Monday, sir. At the shooting range."

"What for?"

"Slacking, sir," it wasn't a lie; true, Sam was the one outright slacking at the time, but Dean had been slacking on the job of watching out for his little brother.

Dad said nothing for a moment longer. There was no way the major hadn't told Dad about this. The only explanation why Dad hadn't brought it up was that this was a test; Dad wanted Dean to spill on his own, to take responsibility for his actions. With all the fear swirling in his belly, Dean was glad he came through, this much he could do right.

Dean heard a rustle and slanted a glance at Dad; he had stood up from his seat.

"What did he use on you?"

"His swagger stick, sir."

Dad huffed out some air and rubbed a hand down his face. "Go get that stick, I'll meet you outside by the car."

Maloney's swagger stick was on the end table in the hall by the front door, where the major could pick it up on his way out. Dad had already stepped out the door, leaving it open, by the time Dean reached the table and stared down at the stick. It looked twice as thick, twice as hard as it usually did.

_Eighteen. Oh God oh God oh fuck_

Dean made his trembling fingers curl around the stick and went outside, closing the door softly behind him.

The Impala was parked at the same spot as on the day Dad brought them here. Dad was standing by the trunk and Dean came to his side and held the swagger stick out.

Dad rolled the stick in his hand as if appraising it. "How many did you get?"

"Nine, sir."

"Did he make you drop your pants?"

"No, sir."

Dad nodded. "You'll keep them on, then." He jerked his head at the trunk.

Dean bent over it and laid his upper body flat over the cool metal, folding his arms before his face. It was a familiar enough position, yet every time he had to assume it, his pulse was racing all anew.

He could hear Dad moving to stand behind him, and anxiously waited for the swish of the stick through the night air.

"Stand down, corporal!"

Dean's head shot up. Major Maloney was standing at the top of the porch steps. He started going down them, his slight limp now more pronounced than ever, and Dean's heart lurched as he saw Sam was at his heels.

Dean didn't even realize he was starting to rise off the trunk until he felt Dad's heavy hand on his back and settled back down.

"With all due respect, sir, this is my son and my business," Dad's voice was only barely holding back rage. "Speaking of which, I don't appreciate you not telling me about the punishment you gave him, per our agreement."

"I didn't punish him."

"Was he lying when he said you beat him with the swagger stick?"

"No. But I didn't punish him."

"No disrespect, sir, but did you or did you not take that goddamned stick to my son's ass?" Dean counted himself lucky he didn't have to look at Dad's face at the moment; hearing that tone was scary enough.

"I did. But it wasn't a punishment."

"Then what the hell was it?!"

"Motivation."

Sam stepped forward to Maloney's side. He threw a glance at Dean, and then focused his eyes on Dad.

"It was all my fault, Dad. I wasn't doing well at the shooting range, and… I guess I was just… not caring about the training. The major gave Dean a stroke with the stick for every missed shot of mine to make me understand the responsibility of getting somebody else hurt if I botched a job for lack of care. Dean didn't do anything wrong. If you need to whip anybody, it's me."

"No!" Dean started to rise again at that, and Dad held him down. Dean twisted his head back to look at him. "It wasn't Sam's fault, Dad."

Dad's eyes flickered to Sam and Maloney, and then back to Dean. "How so?"

"Because you said… you told me to watch out for him. You told me to keep him in line. So if he stepped out of line it's my fault, isn't it?"

Dad looked at him, silently, the corner of his mouth twitching.

Maloney spoke up, but now his voice was soft, the softest Dean had heard it since they met. "If there was a punishment in order, I would have said so. But there isn't. Yours are fine boys, corporal. Loyal, talented, smart. You can be proud of them. Both of them."

Dad blinked, and the weight of his hand lifted off Dean's back. Dean stayed down, not sure what to do until he heard Dad's "c'mere" and pushed himself up.

Dad's arms wrapped around him, tight, as if he was never going to let him go. Dean tucked his head under Dad's chin and let himself sink into that hug. He could feel Dad's hand on the back of his head, sheltering him from the world.

"You're my good boy, Dean," the murmured words might have been too quiet for Sam and Maloney to hear, but not for Dean. "My good boy."

Dean's eyes started to prickle, and he closed them. He wasn't good, he knew that, not as good as Dad wanted him to be, not as good as Dad _deserved_ him to be. But he was trying, he was trying his hardest, and that had to count for something.

It had to be enough.

**Author's Note:**

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